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Unacknowledged
Appreciative am I, of you telling me you have feelings for someone that exceeds your feelings for me.
l am to be reminded that it is desire you feel for me, not the burn of love.
You hide my existence, because the loss of me you can afford.
You are willing to let me go, but fear the departure of those I know of, that are known to the world.
I am a most unfortunate of players.
So gilded in my desire for you, I gamble away my restiveness.
I gamble with the shine of my heart, to blind you against others shimmering past you, coming back to haunt you, revealing a resolve, you need to dissolve, displaying a laissez-faire for my affairs.
“I’ll have to deal with that if you go,” not the answer I hoped to hear.
I’m not leaving you, but forced to leave by the back door I frequent.
Years upon the years, creating a still life of my own design, desired and deigned a floor plan of my heart, that which of, you have no part, but one day I’ll deal with it, if you wish to part.
Yet, while I am no where near you, why the connective tissue?
The need to tell me your heart is trying a turn around an old flame.
Seeing if the scorching is worth the heat.
The crazy toxicity of a suspicious candle, flaring in preceived and justifiable terror.
You can’t be the both.
You can’t seek, with a storeroom of extra supplies, while the main room fines and dines on caviar, champagne, and diamonds.
I’ve built a house of back doors.
Always the secret, secret, Secrets.
I won’t unclothe for you my crystallized desire, it’s gelds the lesser beings of the highest caliber, of which you are not.
Deserve you, I don’t .
I crave the time I am the acknowledged woman.
When he sat, working on a gift poem for a beloved granddaughter, when asked,
“Do you want to fall in love again?” without a hesitating moment for thoughts of his companion or with thoughts of his companion to let her know, he says in the voice that speaks poet's words, “I will never fall in love again.”
Her pitter pat heart practically on the plate before her, she watched in horror, the setness of his jaw, as he stared at the loving poem he wrote for his blood. Foul fingers pecking at small keyboards, correcting the lines she suggested were weak, not ever taking the exact words she displayed from her tongue, but twisted them so as to never give her claims to anything of his. His heart, his home, his soul. His life, never linked to her, never acknowledged to her, kept quiet, and for her sake, he says, and slathered his toast with buttery spread, jellied, and opulently flavored for his mouth that dissed her notion of love between them. Was her hurt by her, was he hurt but the hers, or did she forget to say no, on occasion, even when it was always yes yes yes for her to him. Her heart still laying crimsom on the table looking like a child’s art of feathery construction paper in primary red. The jagged edges pulling apart it in a series of tears and tears, Pixar animated movements across the porcelain, China, white, logo hidden. No one would see them there. The red paper oozing to a fluid liquid state of succumb.
